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Fried Nonsense
Smelling like fried nonsense,
a ragged participle
of the local wealth
had set his sights upon a
man still in good health.
His swipes were all impotent,
betraying at his core
a desperate lacking
of substance, of soul or
of moments feeling whole.
The man fought for himself,
alarmed and confused
by the need of the heavy
to make sport of the light,
of the few who can't afford to run.
Others watched and bellowed,
bile and words of well-wish.
They struggled as two strangers,
from older neighborhoods,
ten acres between the two.
Their struggle grew stale and flat.
People stole away their eyes,
their attention and their young.
Locked in discord and silence,
the two there would remain.
